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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23053174">Monsters</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/aelangreenleaf/pseuds/aelangreenleaf'>aelangreenleaf</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Game of Thrones (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Romance, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 06:20:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,980</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23053174</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/aelangreenleaf/pseuds/aelangreenleaf</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Can something that began broken ever be made whole again?</p><p>---------<br/>He blinks away the tears that rise unbidden, unwanted in his eyes. “A man – a knight – can bear nearly anything, if he must. Look without seeing,” he tells her, closing his eyes. “Go away inside. Do you understand me?”</p><p>He can feel her eyes on him, feel the weight of her gaze. “Yes, but… why? Why would you help me?” she whispers, her voice so soft despite the horrors around her.</p><p>His breath stops in his throat, incredulous. “This isn’t help, woman. This is the lesser of two evils.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>113</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Please, please, please note that there are archive warnings for this for implied non-con/rape. </p><p>I have been trying to get this out of my head for months as an idea, so here we go. </p><p>Eventual Jaime/Brienne in later chapter(s), but a lot of hard stuff to go through to get there.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>He watches them come for her.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He watches Locke direct the men, lifting her to her feet.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He listens to her ask them to reconsider, he listens to her appeal to them in the name of Catelyn Stark, the mother of their king. He listens to them laugh at her.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He watches her fight them.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He listens to her scream.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He makes his choice, and speaks. </em>
</p><hr/><p>“Bring her back here,” Locke calls out to his men over his shoulder, and looks back at Jaime. “Unbesmirched…?” he repeats.</p><p>“With her honour intact,” he clarifies, only just stopping himself from grinning in triumph. His eyes follow as Brienne is brought back by Locke’s men, her face bruised and her eyes red, but otherwise unharmed. He can’t help the surge of confusing relief he feels in his chest when he sees her, the stupid, stubborn wench.</p><p>“I know what it means,” Locke sneers, and Jaime starts, surprised. “What would a Kingslayer know about honour remaining intact?” he says, before aiming a kick at Jaime’s ribs.</p><p>The impact forces Jaime back hard against the tree, and all the air leaves his lungs in a single moment. He groans, the months of imprisonment having rendered him weaker and more fragile than normal. Locke reaches down and hauls Jaime back up into a seated position, his hand wrapped in the fabric at the base of Jaime’s throat.</p><p>“You noblemen are all the same – you think because your fathers are rich and your mothers weren’t whores that that makes you better than everyone else, <em>above</em> everyone else. You think that you can buy us and bribe us with Lannister gold and Tarth sapphires and that we will bend over backwards for the scraps you throw from your table.” Locke grabs his manacles with his free hand, and jerks Jaime up to his feet, his ribs still stinging from the earlier blow. “Bring the big bitch here,” Locke commands, and as they drag Brienne back into the light near the fire Jaime feels fear beginning to pool in his stomach, can feel that the situation is slipping from his control.</p><p>“Rumour has it, Kingslayer, that you’ve only ever fucked your sister,” Locke states, and his men all break out in laughter. “People say that you can only get your noble prick up for Cersei, the royal cunt,” and Jaime throws himself forward without thinking, his hands curling into fists, desperate to punch-maim-<em>kill</em> Locke for even <em>breathing</em> his twin’s name.</p><p>“Why don’t we test that, men?” Locke sneers, and his men all cheer in response.</p><p>The blood in Jaime’s veins runs cold, and for a brief moment he wonders if the kick to the ribs pushed him into unconsciousness, and that this is all a pain-induced delusion in his head. “No,” he breathes, not meaning to speak aloud, but Locke hears him all the same.</p><p>“What’s that, Kingslayer? Afraid that you won’t be able to perform? Well, let me make it interesting for you – either you fuck this big bitch now and save her from the rest of us, or you watch us take our turns with her until she can’t take any more.”</p><p>She looks up at him, her eyes red, her lips stained with blood. Even in the darkness he can see the panic in her eyes.</p><p>“No,” Jaime croaks, his voice breaking as he winces from the pain in his ribs. “I won’t,” he says more firmly, lifting his chin and meeting Locke’s gaze with all the Lannister fury he can muster. “You will leave the lady be, and you will be a good little dog for Bolton, because if my father hears that –“</p><p>Locke barks out a laugh, raising his head in mirth as if he was about to howl. “What, you’ll call your father down on us? For doing what, exactly? Forcing you to touch a woman that you aren’t related to by blood? Are you <em>sure</em> you’re a Lannister, Kingslayer? Beneath the blonde hair you’re much more lamb than lion, bleating out for your father to rescue you. Maybe <em>she’s</em> the bear and you’re the maiden fair,” and all of Locke’s men break out into laughter once more.</p><p>Jaime reaches out for Locke’s neck – he will <em>wring </em>that little dog’s spine until he is dead, and then he’ll cut the rest of them down, how <em>dare they</em> –</p><p>Locke kicks him the ribs again, and he drops into the mud, black dots swimming in his vision. Dimly he can hear the woman cry out, he can hear her throw a punch, and then a groan as a blow lands with a thud, and he can hear them pulling at her clothing, can hear them muttering and cursing at her, and all he can think is that they <em>will</em> kill her for this, that they won’t stop when they’ve had their fun, even if she <em>is</em> a noblewoman… they will take what they want and she will die here in these woods, torn apart by wild beasts disguised as men.</p><p>
  <em>(He thinks, unbidden, of Rhayella’s muffled screams beyond the door, his hands locked around the pommel of his sword as he stands guard for his king, helpless and useless and pathetic).</em>
</p><p>He blinks his eyes open, looks over at her pinned down into the ground as one of Locke’s men rips at her shirt, while another fumbles with his belt. He tries to get up again, and Locke punches him in the stomach, and Jaime falls to his knees.</p><p>Locke stares down at him in the mud, fury behind those beady little eyes. “If you try to stop my men again, I’ll cut your fucking hand off.”<br/><br/>He can hear her gasp at Locke’s words, and when his eyes meet hers – <em>so bright, so blue</em> –  he can see her barely shake her head no (<em>no, Kingslayer, stay over there</em>) and he wants to murder her and praise her all at once, because even now he can hear her voice in his head (“I swore an oath, Kingslayer”), and before he can think he is dragging himself back up to his feet, on his way over to her.</p><p>“Do not touch her,” he commands them, and they look back at him in fury, like greedy children pulled away from a prize.</p><p>“So eager to lose a hand, Kingslayer?” scoffs Locke, “besides, right now you couldn’t beat a child armed with a blunt sword.” Brienne tries to push one of the men off of her, and he can hear the slap the man delivers to her face.</p><p>Jaime swallows hard, closing his eyes. Does committing one evil to stop another make him any less of a monster? <em>You already are a monster in their eyes – in </em>her <em>eyes, </em>whispers the voices in his head. Might as well finally become the monster they have always said he was.</p><p>“None of you are to touch her,” he tells them, “and none of you fucking worthless mongrels will <em>ever </em>touch her, do you understand?”</p><p>Locke smirks at him. “I thought you were afraid of any cunt that didn’t belong to a blood relative?” The men laugh, and Locke’s smirk widens.</p><p>Jaime ignores them, and kneels down next to Brienne, who can only stare up at him somewhere between wariness and abject fear and yet, somehow, for some reason… <em>trust</em>. “We can try to fight them,” he whispers, hoping against hope that she will listen to him, that they can pick up their swords and stand next to each other like they did when Locke approached them on the bridge. Hoping that they can go out in a blaze of glory together, that he can die side by side with this ugly, stupid, <em>brave</em>, <em>honourable</em> bitch that has haunted his every step for weeks on end.</p><p>She shakes her head no, and when she speaks her voice is so soft that he strains to hear it over the growing hollers and crude taunts from the men around them. “I swore an oath to Lady Catelyn that I would return you to King’s Landing,” she murmurs, “and that is what I am going to do, no matter what it takes.” Her eyes lock with his, and it nearly breaks him.</p><p>“I can’t… I can’t let you die for me, you stubborn bitch,” he tells her desperately, ignoring Locke’s shouting in the background.</p><p>Even with the blood on her face, her hair covered in mud, she can still look so piously irate that he nearly laughs despite himself. “You said you’d kill me yourself on that bridge. What do you care?”</p><p>
  <em> He sees her bury the three tavern girls, he sees her put herself between him and the Stark men. He sees her refuse to kill an innocent man. He sees her refuse to go down without a fight. He sees…</em>
</p><p>“Do you want to die?” he hisses at her.</p><p>Her eyes lock with his, and she whispers: “No.”</p><p>He blinks away the tears that rise unbidden, unwanted in his eyes. “A man – a <em>knight</em> – can bear nearly anything, if he must. Look without seeing,” he tells her, closing his eyes. “Go away inside. Do you understand me?”</p><p>He can feel her eyes on him, <em>feel</em> the weight of her gaze. “Yes, but… why? Why would you help me?” she whispers, her voice so soft despite the horrors around her.</p><p>His breath stops in his throat, incredulous. “This isn’t help, woman. This is the lesser of two evils.”</p><p>Eyes still closed, he reaches for his belt, and he hopes she thinks of Renly.</p><hr/><p>They try to touch her anyway, afterwards, and he kills two men (still manacled) before the rest of them can stop him. They forget about the big woman in their anger, and drag him away towards a log by the fire.</p><p>“I told you, Kingslayer, try to stop my men again…” Locke brings down the sword, and Jaime screams.</p><hr/><p>He passes in and out of consciousness, only catching snippets of light and shadow, strapped to a horse and struggling to stay upright. Dimly, he can hear Brienne call out to warn them, but then he is falling into a pile of mud and shit. There is water, and horse piss, and a clash of swords, and then he is being beaten into the mud yet again, his rotting right hand still strapped to his neck.</p><hr/><p>“You need to eat,” she tells him as they sit by their own pitiful excuse for a fire, and it makes him want to rage at her, to tear her apart with his words.</p><p>“Why do you care?” he says instead, ignoring the pain and the stench emanating from his stump of a right arm, wishing it would stop killing him slowly and start killing him quickly.</p><p>“You need to live, to take revenge,” she says, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.</p><p>He opens his eyes, looks at her. “Will you want your revenge as well, my lady? Is that why you live? Is that why you want <em>me</em> to live? So you can take your sword and punish the one that has wronged you?”</p><p>She blinks at him in confusion. “I do not want to kill you, Kingslayer. I swore an oath –“</p><p>He barks in laughter, and winces when the motion pulls at his bruised ribs. “Do you still swear by that oath? To protect a monster? A monster who took you and…” he trails off, suddenly exhausted, all the fight gone from him.</p><p>She is silent a long moment. “You have done evil things, Kingslayer. You have killed your own king, you have murdered countless scores of men, and you have committed incest with your own kin, and perhaps you are a monster for these things that you have done. But what you have done to me - for me -  does not make you a monster. I wanted to live – I <em>still</em> want to live – and you kept me alive against all odds.”</p><p>He feels breathless from her words, all the air sapped from his lungs. “How can you abide what I have done to you?”</p><p>He can’t meet her eyes, but, yet again, he can feel her eyes bore down into his skin, as if seeing into the very marrow of his bones. “I cannot thank you for what you have done, Kingslayer, but I can tell you I will always be grateful that I did not die by the hands of Locke and his men.”</p><p>He does not know what he can possibly to say to that, so he grabs a chunk of stale bread and bites down, hoping that in itself is answer enough.</p><p> </p><hr/><p>He is near delirious by the time they arrive at the crumbling ruins of Harrenhal, and when Bolton tells him that Cersei is still alive, he nearly weeps before the maester and his men come to take him away.</p><hr/><p>At dinner (after the maester does what he can to salvage what remains of Jaime’s sword hand, after an awkward incident at the baths where he had run into Brienne and, overcome with guilt, he had retreated until he could bathe alone), Bolton tries to tell them that Brienne will stay behind. Bolton, between careful bites of what passes for meat in this place, tells them calmly that she is a traitor and beholden to a treasonous lady, and that she will remain at Harrenhal with Locke and his men.</p><p>Jaime laughs in his face. “I take it you know what your men did to us, Bolton?”</p><p>Cold eyes lock with his. “My men have informed me about what you… experienced in your journey here.”</p><p>Jaime spears another piece of stringy meat onto his knife, and (his left hand only trembling a little_ brings it to his mouth. “So if I were to return south to King’s Landing, and told my father that there was a chance you had, through your own sheer idiocy, forced me to possibly leave the first Lannister grandchild for Casterly Rock in the hands of your filthiest, most disgusting men, do you imagine his reaction to be a calm one?”</p><p>Roose Bolton says nothing, and Jaime can<em> feel</em> Brienne’s eyes boring holes into the side of his head.</p><p>He chews the meat, swallows. “There would be nowhere he would not search in order to find you, Bolton. You sail into the Shivering Sea, and he would be waiting. You could run past the Wall itself, and he would beat you there. The Lady Brienne comes with me.”</p><hr/><p>When they leave the following morning, Jaime can feel Roose Bolton’s gaze on him long after Harrenhal disappears from his sight.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Please remember the archive warnings.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>When she was a child, her father would tell her stories – great epic tales of knights and their exploits, of princesses freed from locked towers, of battles fought between good and evil for the very fate of the world. She would dream at night of being swept off her feet by a shining knight, or dream of fighting alongside the great men of the Kingsguard – beacons of light and honour and valour. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>And then she grew older, and her mother never came back from the birthing bed, and her brother died young, and men began to spit cruel words to her face. People talked openly of a Kingsguard killing his own king, of a sworn knight crushing a child’s skull, of heroes taking women against their will, and suddenly the world was more dark forest than bright meadow, monsters wearing the skin of knights prowling in the shadows.</em>
</p>
<hr/><p>The road south is easier now – wider, more well travelled, and the winds rising from further south in the Reach bring warmth with them. Bolton, apparently fully cognizant (in the end) of staying on the right side of Tywin Lannister, had given them horses and a small escort, along with the strange almost-maester that had treated the Kingslayer’s festering wounds.</p><p>The Kingslayer. They were two days from Harrenhal now, and aside from an occasional nod if they accidentally caught each other’s eyes, he had not spoken to her since they had left Bolton and his dogs behind. He always rode with at least one of the escorts between them, keeping his distance.</p><p>She did not know what to think of him. So much had happened, so much that was neither black or white grey upon grey upon grey, and she struggled to keep it all in her head. Here was man who had shoved a sword into his king’s back, who had killed his cousin, who had lain with his sister… he should be, all things considered, just like Locke’s unchained beasts in the woods, empty shells of men.</p><p>And yet –</p><p>Yet he was the not the same at all. He was a man of no straight lines – he fought her on the bridge, sharp steel to sharp steel, his blade angling for her throat – but when Locke’s men arrived he turned his back to her and faced them head on with her, as if they were a team and not prisoner &amp; warden. When Locke’s men had dragged her into the woods, when their dirty hands and broken fingernails had clawed at her clothes, at her skin, he’d called out to Locke, and made them bring her back.</p><p>When, after he’d done what he’d done and he’d pulled away from her body (<em>gently, timidly</em>), and the men had rushed forward to her like vultures to carrion, he’d wrapped his manacles around the first one’s neck, squeezing the life from him, stolen a dagger and stabbed another in the eye, all to protect her. <em>[the sound of punishment, of Locke’s blade cutting through the air, the anguished cry, the thump as metal struck through bone]</em></p><p>When he’d whispered to her, kneeling beside her in the mud, and told her to close her eyes, to <em>go away inside</em>, a strange, discordant kindness she’d never expected to receive.</p><p>She should hate him.</p><p>She <em>would </em>like to hate him. She would like to revile him, to curse his name and weep for what he has taken from her – her virtue, her honour, her maidenhood. It would be so simple, and so easy to despise him for what he has done to her. Stripping the last of her innocence away from her, forced together in the mud and muck and broken leaves.</p><p>And yet -</p><p>And yet, she cannot hate him. She cannot help but feel… <em>something</em> for him, a connection, a bond. Certainly not love, and yet not hatred or even quite respect but something almost fragile, invisible chains that keep them tied to one another. Twin prisoners, twin victims. A shared trauma that links them inexorably together, for better or for worse.</p>
<hr/><p>On the fifth night, when the memories of blood on her dead king’s chest and monsters in the woods keep her from sleep, she rises from her bedroll and joins the Kingslayer at the watch fire.</p><p>She sits across from him, wrapping her furs around her a bit more tightly, and she can feel his eyes on her as she reaches a hand out to feel the warmth of the flames.</p><p>They sit in silence. She studies him from across the fire – in the dim firelight she can see some strength coming back to his cheeks, the pallid undertones of his skin giving way to some colour and life again. He still cradles his empty wrist against his chest, a slight hunch to his shoulders, curling inwards and protecting himself from further harm.</p><p>She can’t help herself – she asks the question that has been on her mind since the night in woods, since he’d lain down beside her in the mud and the detritus of the forest floor and told her how to survive. “What you said, “ she begins hesitantly, and he starts at the sound of her voice, as if surprised she would ever speak to him again. She clears her throat, looks down at her hands, tries again. “What you told me, before – before <em>everything</em>, you told me to go away inside. You remember?”</p><p>“Yes,” he whispers.</p><p>She looks towards him, meets and keep his gaze. “Have you done the same yourself?”</p><p>He laughs, but there is no humour in his voice. “I’ve not been <em>taken </em>against my will, no.”</p><p>She winces a bit to hear it said so baldly. “No – that’s, that’s not what I meant. Have you had to go away inside before? To see without seeing?”</p><p>He stares at her for a long moment, his eyes partially hidden in the darkness as the fire burns more dimly. “You really want to know?”</p><p>“Yes,” she replies.</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>She shrugs, uncertain herself. “I just do.”</p><p>He stares at her again, harder now, before turning his gaze away and adding another log to the fire. “It’s not a happy story, Brienne of Tarth.”</p><p>“Is it a true story?”</p><p>He furrows his brow, goes silent. “Yes,” he finally replies.</p><p>She is quiet a moment, then nods once in approval. “All happy stories are lies. Tell me a true story, Kingslayer.”</p><p>He waits – waiting, it seems, just in case she changes her mind. But she simply snakes her hand back from the fire, tucks it into her cloak, and then he quietly, softly, tells her about the wildfire.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>He is coaxing her back down into the mud, his arms only skimming over her, wary of too much touch. His hands are shaking as he reaches down, his fingers pulling slowly at the laces of her trousers. A tear slips from his eyes, slides down his cheek, falls onto her own. </em>
</p><p><em>The violent cacophony of the beasts around them pulses more and more quickly, like the panicked heartbeat of a deer when cornered, rising higher and higher and higher. She closes her eyes, tries to go away inside, she tries to drift far from here, but it’s all too much, and she can feel her trousers slide down her legs and she can’t, she </em>can’t, <em>she –</em></p><p>
  <em>He leans down, whispers gently in her ear. “Think of the sapphire isle, my lady. Think of your warm summer days, of the gentle soft rain. Think of the sun on your skin, the sweetness of a summer wine. Think of the blueness of the waters as you walk along the beach, your toes buried in sand.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She breathes a bit more freely now, a bit more controlled. She hears him swallow hard. “There are no horrors there,” he whispers brokenly, and she tries not to think anymore.</em>
</p>
<hr/><p>The night by the fire changed nothing, and yet everything.</p><p>It could not erase what had happened between them. It could not erase the black marks against him, could not absolve him of his myriad of sins. But when he had told her of Rhaella screaming and sobbing behind a locked door; when he had whispered of the smell of burning flesh and the sound of laughing of a mad king… When, as the new light of dawn broke around them and their watchfire went cold, he had told her of the caches of wildfire under the city gates and homes and beds, and how the pyromancer and the king had cackled together, praising the idea of the flames. How the youngest Kingsguard, the lone one left behind as political collateral during a war, had taken his sword and run it straight through the man he’d sworn to protect, the same man who could not stop murmuring <em>burn them all, burn them all.</em></p><p>She believed him. She <em>believes</em> him, and in believing him can not reconcile all the versions of Jaime Lannister into one single image – he is like a face in the firelight, reflecting anger and lust and malice one moment, pain and sacrifice and honour the next.</p><p>He is a thousand shades of grey at once, no hero and yet no monster, and that only confuses her more.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>At least two more chapters to go.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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